It’s all a matter of where you come from, where you’re at,
and where you’re going.Working in the
hinterland as I have recently, my eyes have beheld sights I never thought
possible.On a glorious sunny Sunday in
Brookville IN, my ‘95 993 Cab with roof down was parked at a restaurant for
breakfast.I decided to move it when a
guy in a Jeep CJ with overwide tires decided to see how close to my car he
could get as he swung from the wrong side into a diagonal parking spot.Then I noticed that mine was the only vehicle
in the lot actually within the prescribed paint lines.So I moved it to a less “risky” spot while
the guy was still in his Jeep, which drew a puzzled look from him, but little
else.

Along comes a couple in a ‘65 or so Dodge Coronet 440, who
park alongside my 993.Stepping from
their car, they don’t even glance at the Porsche.The REST of the people who walk past,
however, are VERY enlightening.You
could basically separate them by age, with 25 being the midline.Below have no idea what the Coronet is except
a wasteful, excessive, muscle car with tin-foil brakes and atrocious handling,
but it will spin the tires on the wheels.And above that age are pickup truck drivers with pictures of Calvin
showing his relative respect for other brands than those on their particular truck.Those drivers look longingly, and I am sure
knowingly, at the 440, with its black vinyl bench seats and
one-crash-will-kill-you dashboard, and barely recognize the Porsche’s
existence.Not a great ego inflator.

Mind you, none of these people is stupid nor ignorant; they
simply have different aspirations.Out
here, pure raw power is king, and handling is a complete non-issue if one can
light up the tires down the center of town on a Friday night.Indiana is one of few states where you can
legally still ride a motorcycle without a helmet.I won’t even begin to review the bad odds of
doing so; just keep in mind what a life member of the Harley Owners Group (HOG)
told me; “If you haven’t dumped a bike, you haven’t rode a bike”.Seems to cover it in a nutshell.And the funny thing is that there are
basically only two bike types for miles around; Harley and BMW.Now, given the car status situation, the
former was certainly expected, but the Beemers?And to quote the local vernacular; “rice burners, we don’t need no
stinkin’ rice burners”, despite the fact most of those Japanese crotch rockets
can eat a Harley for lunch in terms of acceleration and handling.

And, like most of life, perceptions often don’t square with
facts.A casual glance at these guys
(AND dolls) at first conjures up the stereotypical Hell’s Angel, until you
realize they have more invested in their bikes than I have in my Porsche, and
their hair is as grey as mine.They aren’t
going through a second childhood, so much as a first adulthood.They can finally afford what they have pined
for since they first heard the wail of a V Twin, and they want to live every
bit of the experience.So they dress in
leathers, always black, and wear provocative shirts proclaiming the marque to
the world.Yet on weekends they hold
HUGE rallies for HOBOS, Helpers On Bikes Organization, and raise funds for
various charities in the area.They also
are a great bunch of social people who have learned to laugh at themselves even
more than others.I like to be with them
a lot.

So what about the Beemers?They share the same beer and socializing, and are perfectly accepted
because they are open air lovers; they just like it a little quieter.Unfortunately, neither group seems to know
much about air cooled six cylinder boxer engines, nor the cars which carry
them.Their kids, however, are another
matter entirely.I had stopped at the local
IGA (a LOT smaller than Wegman’s) and noticed that two young boys were
practically drooling in their pickup while their father seemed preoccupied
elsewhere.So I casually asked if the
boys knew what it was, and I was startled to hear the eldest say “993 Cabriolet”.BANG!This is a kid with a soul!So I
asked if he had ever been in one.He was
really shy, but his dad said it would be OK for a “ride”, so in my best Porsche
Club ambassador behavior, I took him for what was never close to a “spin”.Instead, I showed him the things I consider
to be the hallmark of a Porsche; that you wear them rather than sit in them,
that once having done so, they are almost directly wired to your synapses, so
you merely need to think your actions to get their response, that they reward
patience, and penalize impulse.And most
importantly, they are one of very few automobiles with the capability to save
my life by avoidance INSTEAD of surviving a crash, even while they feel as
solid as a bank vault.And the brakes...God, what brakes!

As any of you could attest in similar circumstances, which I
would suggest at every opportunity as it will give you more personal pleasure
than perhaps any activity you can name, the ride was a joyous celebration of
life and engineering, and we were both grinning from ear to ear when I returned
the son to the father.But I know where
he’s been.I know where I am, and I
really like it.And I know where we are
both going.It reminded me of a visit I
made to the Avon CT Porsche dealer in 1976.With no possibility of buying such a car, I was nonetheless enchanted by
the Signature Platinum Targa they had on display.And a very wise salesman came over and
offered me the keys for a test drive.Of
course, I declined and told him I was incapable of buying such a car.His response; “Someday You Will”.I now have my second in a long list.That young boy will do the same.

And I get the sense that the bikers are in that same
personal space; they know who they are and who they want to be.At once seemingly rebellious, while endlessly
cooperative in approaching shared goals.And in thinking about that, I also understand the ogling of the
440.When THEY were growing up, that was
the badass ride they lusted after, so it tugs at their heartstrings.

We in CNY have been blessed with a more cosmopolitan
background, perhaps, but the emotions have exactly the same roots.Life is short.I’m not here for a long time, just a good
one.And I am enjoying it.